Authors: Jerrilyn Farmer
O
n only one hour of sleep, nobody looks too good. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I moved Holly’s VW and pulled the Jeep out into traffic, awake only but for the curative powers of a hot shower, eyedrops, and a can of Diet Coke. Unfortunately, my old Grand Wagoneer is from the days before cup holders were a standard feature. I propped the soda can between the gearshift and my purse and tried to keep the car steady so the can wouldn’t tip.
If I had been fully awake, I might have marveled at the almost complete lack of traffic on the Hollywood Freeway where it transitioned to the 101 North. Five
A.M.
was one hell of a good time to drive. I’d have to remember that.
Mile after mile I zoomed into the western reaches of the San Fernando Valley, as the sun rose from behind my car, turning the chilly, misty, overcast morning a brighter shade of gray by the minute. It’s what native Angelenos call “the marine layer,” the condition that requires us all to leave the house in sweaters on days that will end up in the eighties. I pulled my pink sweater a little tighter and checked the sky. The thick, low-level clouds seemed to go on forever, forming a
lumpy ceiling over the Valley. I knew they’d burn off around noon.
Having checked the map book, I had learned that De Soto Avenue intersected Victory Boulevard out in Woodland Hills. It was approximately 16.4 miles from my house and, at the speed I was able to drive at this hour, I would be there in less than fifteen minutes.
I pulled off the freeway and turned north onto De Soto, cruising through the intersection at Oxnard, a Zippy-Lube next to a taco stand on the left. With only a diet soda for breakfast, I confess I eyed the taco stand, but then remembered my errand. On the right, I saw the campus of Los Angeles Pierce College, a two-year school whose bucolic acreage harkened back to the time in the twenties when this part of the Valley had all been ranch land and orange groves. Now, those former fields surrounding the school were filled with so-called ranch-style homes, built mostly in the fifties and sixties, each on its own small grassy lot. The college, however, was over two hundred acres and much of it was still open fields. I slowed down and reread my directions. Up on the right, I saw the entrance I was looking for, the turnoff onto El Rancho Drive. I was now on the Pierce campus, driving slowly, looking at pastureland.
On the left was an equestrian arena, with a barn farther off next to a park. Driving less than fifteen miles an hour, I passed the agriculture science building, but classes wouldn’t start for another few hours at least and there were no students to be seen anywhere. The poultry unit next door was equally devoid of human activity. If Tim Stock or any of his associates were looking for a remote location within twenty minutes of the KTLA studio, they had found it. I scanned the
hay-colored fields in the misty morning, making sure I didn’t miss the first right turn. In my map book, this tiny path was called Pepper Tree Lane, but there was no street sign to be found that marked it as such. I made the right turn, hoping I wasn’t lost already.
To my right was a complex of feed barns. This was not simple. The note instructed the second building on the right. Did they mean to include these separate barns as one building? I decided to keep going and check things out farther down the lane. When I came to the next structure on the right, I was glad my truck had four-wheel drive. I pulled in over the dried, rutted mud and looked for someplace to hide the Jeep.
As it turned out, this place was clean out of hiding spots. The parking area was there along the road. The fields all around the barn were pastureland. Not only was this site remote, but it also provided a great defensive position. No one could easily wait in ambush. I slid out of my truck and walked over to the nearest building, a rustic-looking wooden enclosure. My wristwatch said 5:30. If today was the day for some important meeting, and if I hadn’t managed to get the directions completely fouled up, I had about thirty minutes to look around.
It was a wonderfully quiet morning, with only the music of a dozen birds noisily waking up and discussing this odd stranger walking around the mud in that crazy little skirt and those insane little tan suede boots. This, they were clearly tweeting, was no kind of a student they’d ever seen.
I stepped carefully over the straw and the soft spots in the muddy field, watching out for the stones and small gullies that would guarantee me a one-way trip to the orthopedic wing of the nearest hospital. At the
door of the barn, I looked back around. I could see the long stretch of the lane that had brought me here. No cars moved. An old truck was parked about a block away, but it was so bird speckled and rusted, it might have been there permanently.
I tried the door to the barn and it wouldn’t budge. I was such a city girl. Did barns have locks? I looked for one and was treated to the sight of a large metal latch that had only to be thrown back to unhitch the hinged door. Well, duh.
With the door open, I proceeded to enter the dark enclosure. I heard the sound of rustling and I looked to my left. That’s when I realized I was not, indeed, alone. Squealing ensued. Here in this barn there were row upon row of fenced-off pens, each one holding a nice, fat pig. A sign on each pen announced its occupant’s name.
“Sadie and Lou,” read one sign. I saw only one pig.
“Are you Sadie or Lou?” I asked quietly. She ignored me.
Another sign read: “Dumpling.” Another: “Gladiola.” I walked down the row and looked at the animals. On the ground, I picked up a mud-splattered copy of
The Journal of Swine Health and Production
, which billed itself as “the only refereed, swine-focused journal currently being published in North America.” And I supposed I would now have to give up that dream to be the first to produce such a journal. Life can be cruel.
At the end of the row, there seemed to erupt a commotion of squeals and shoving. I walked down the aisle and found five adorable pink piglets squirming for attention. The pen was marked “4-week-old weaned pigs, 10 kg, hybrid.” I couldn’t help myself. I
had to pick one of these cuties up and say hello.
“Say there. You lookin’ for someone?”
I jumped. Standing at the door to the pig enclosure was a man, silhouetted against the bright outdoor light. I carefully set the happy little piglet back down among her brothers and sisters.
“Hello,” I said, straightening up.
“You’re not a student,” the man said, without a shadow of a doubt in his tone of voice.
“No. I’m not.” I tried to walk without losing my balance on the slatted wooden floor to meet him, but the one-inch heels on my boots were so narrow they kept slipping through the cracks. As I neared the door, I saw he was a trim fellow, maybe early to mid-thirties, dressed in dusty dark denim pants and a navy uniform shirt, with the cuffs rolled back and the name “Karl” stitched over the pocket. “Are you Karl?” I tried.
“Well, you may not be a student here,” he said with a chuckle, “but at least you can read.”
Drat. That always used to work for Charlie’s angels. I might not have disarmed Karl with my wits, but at least the guy had a sense of humor.
“I was supposed to meet someone here,” I said. “I may have gotten the wrong address.”
“Address?” Karl looked at me funny. “You got a date for early morning lattes in the swine barn?”
“Well, not exactly. No.” Karl backed up and ushered me out into the bright morning waiting outside.
“So who are you?” he asked. Karl wore a red feed cap on his head, its bill rounded in the deep curve that was currently in fashion. He was pretty nice looking for a farm boy. I wondered if he worked out in a gym or if that was the kind of body one got from lifting bales of hay all day long.
“I’m Madeline Bean,” I said. I pulled out one of my business cards, one that says: “MAD BEAN EVENTS, Special Events, Parties, Catering,” with my name and my phone number in the lower corner.
Karl read it over and smirked. I noticed he had a small scar across his right eyebrow. “You scouting locations for a hay ride, Madeline?”
“No. Just meeting friends.”
“This is school property, and while I don’t think you were planning to steal one of our prize pigs, there, it still doesn’t do to have strangers at large on the farm. Know what I mean?”
“Sure. I won’t be in the way, though. And I’m not a stranger, now. I mean, you have my card and you know how to reach me. If anything goes missing, you can send the cops out to arrest me. But what I mean is, nothing will go missing. I was just saying hello—”
“You can’t wait for your friends inside this barn.” Karl gave me a direct look. Now Karl was not an easy man to sweet-talk.
“Okay, then.” What else could I say? It was five minutes until six and I wasn’t sure anyone would show up there, anyway. I wasn’t even sure I was in the right barn.
“So who is this friend of yours?” Karl asked as he escorted me back to my Grand Wagoneer parked on the lane out in front.
“Friends,” I said. “Heidi and Monica. Do you know them?”
He stared at me. “Heidi and Monica?”
I nodded.
“Well, maybe you are all turned around. I think you might find those two up over there.” Karl pointed up the lane to the last building on the right.
“Inside there?”
“Well, either inside or out back.”
“Thanks,” I said, giving Karl my warmest smile, and then I got into my truck and drove the quarter mile or so until I reached the next building. While I had been inside the swine barn, there had been some subtle changes outside. I saw a few more SUVs and trucks parked here and there. The Pierce College farm was beginning to see some activity.
I parked next to the only vehicle close to the building I was heading for. It was an older blue Honda CR-V. Like everything around here, it was pretty well splashed with mud. As I walked past it, a sticker near the back window caught my eye: ktla parking permit 011.
My head swiveled back, riveted to the words. Someone who worked at the studio was here. Someone who rated a parking permit on the lot. Someone, that is, besides me.
I stepped carefully across an open yard over to a barn, which was almost identical to the one Karl had kicked me out of. This time I knew about the latch and I pulled it open like a pro and walked in. Here, as in the previous farm enclosure, I moved out of the daylight and into a vast dark room. The only difference was that the fence sections forming the pens were taller. This barn held Pierce College’s sheep population. I looked around for any women, students perhaps, that Karl had led me to believe might be working here. However, no one was there except us sheep.
I let my eyes adjust to the light. The sheep were actually quite cute. They were larger and quieter than the pigs, but there were slight rustlings and creakings as they pulled on hay or walked across their wood-slat floors.
I decided to wait here. After all, the note said “6:00
A.M.
Thursday.” My watch told me it was just a few minutes past six now.
I looked into some of the stalls. There were several different breeds, each with different characteristics and fleece color. Some were white, but others were straw-colored, and one was even black. I was surprised by how full their fleece was and suspected they were prize examples kept by the school’s agriculture department for showing. A sign on the wall described the merino breed:
The long, unbroken line of breeding extending back for more than twelve hundred years of sheep bred for one specific purpose, the production of the best wool in the world, make the merino the best all-around breed the world has ever known. No other wool can compare with the wool of the merino in its color, uniformity, strength, density, and fineness. Fleece should be from 2.5 inches to 4 inches long in one year’s growth. It should be fine enough to grade from 64s in spinning count to as high as 80s.
Frankly, I had had no idea that sheep people could get quite so passionate over their animals. I patted the head of one ewe standing quietly in her pen nearby. Her sign read: “Meryl Sheep.” Hmm. The next pen contained “Dan Merino.” Whoever named these sheep was my kind of shepherdess. Next to Dan was “Dances with Wool.” I let out a giggle.
I took out the note. I reread the light pencil marks that told the time and the directions. I turned it over once more and read the worrisome comment on the
bottom. “Please help me, Tim. Monica and Heidi might have to die.” Something about those two names had always bothered me.
It didn’t take me long to find the pen I was after. Just down the aisle and over to the left. There, in a double enclosure, were the objects of my search. Two beautiful plump sheep. The sign on the pen read:
MONICA EWEINSKY AND HEIDI FLEECE
.
T
he sound of dogs barking in the distance didn’t seem to faze Monica and Heidi the least little bit, but as the barking became louder and nearer, I was beginning to think about becoming alarmed. I glanced back and noticed I’d left the barn door open. Oops. Now I knew how boys felt. The barking grew even louder and then three large animals burst into the sheep barn. Three German shepherd dogs, their dark fur flying toward me. And yet, they looked familiar. Three German…
I stood up and drew a breath.
“Come back here, you!” Behind the dogs came their owner, trying to get them to mind.
“Susan!” I was stunned. It was Susan Anderson. I’d seen a group photo of the three beautiful dogs, each with his own distinctive coloring, on her desk at
Food Freak.
One mostly black, that was Niko, she had told me. One a beautiful golden color with a small patch of black, that was Thorn. The baby was Khailo. But he didn’t look like much of a baby now.
Susan Anderson called out in a singing voice, like an affectionate if exasperated mother, “Khailo! Niko! Thorn! Out of here. Scoot.”
Niko, the leader, turned for the door and the other
two followed him as they heeded their mistress and reversed course.
“My goodness. Madeline. What are you doing here?” Susan asked, standing in the doorway and shooing her mischievous boys outside.
“Susan.” I was really almost at a loss for words. Me. “I came here looking for Heidi and Monica,” I finished. How to explain.
“
My
Heidi and Monica?” she asked. “Heidi Fleece and Monica Eweinsky? Really? I didn’t know you were interested in sheep.” There was more barking coming from just past the door. “Come outside a minute and we can talk. I want to keep an eye on the boys.”
Susan Anderson was the head production assistant on
Food Freak,
but what else did I really know about her? Certainly nothing about her early mornings at Pierce College. And nothing about sheep.
The tailgate to her Honda was down and she beckoned me over to sit with her. “Really,” she said when I joined her, “did you come all the way out here this morning looking for me?”
“I was looking for Tim Stock,” I said, sitting next to her. “I found this note in a magazine near his office.” I brought out the folded postcard and smoothed it against the tailgate. Susan looked at it and sighed. “You know about this?” I asked.
Susan looked at me and became thoughtful. One of her boys, Niko, jumped up, putting two paws on her lap. She sat there, rubbing his thick black neck absently, not quite ready to talk.
Susan had a sweet nature, a bubbly sense of humor, and a little shyness mixed in. She was a nurturer. I’d watched her on
Food Freak
taking care of everyone, from the producer to the director to her young assistant
PAs. She was the one you turned to for advice or a Motrin or an extra pen.
I looked at her now, away from the artificial environment of the studio, and she seemed less hunched over out here. Susan was maybe three inches taller than me, I’d guess around five foot eight. She was slender, with a nice figure, but she tended to dress down. Today she was wearing Wrangler jeans and a tucked-in T-shirt that displayed the face of
Love Connection
host Chuck Woollery. I got the joke and smiled at her.
“I’ve got another one I’m wearing tomorrow,” she said, noticing my smile. “It’s a picture of Bob Ewebanks.” Again, she dimpled. She had a beautiful soft smile and pretty gray-green eyes, which were partly hidden behind tiny wire-rimmed glasses. It was hard to gauge her age, but not yet forty, I’d guess. She could look a lot younger if she tried. Her skin showed not a trace of makeup and her full curly crop of hair had begun to show a few strands of gray among the chestnut brown.
“I take it you know about this note, then,” I said.
“Oh, yes. I wrote it.”
“You did?”
“But you can see, Tim’s not here.” Susan looked around the yard and we were still the only two humans near the sheep enclosure.
“So this meeting was supposed to be today?” I asked. “I wasn’t sure.”
“I don’t know if I should tell you any more, Madeline. Some of this stuff is Tim’s private business and he made me promise not to talk about it to anyone. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Susan.” How could I tell her Tim Stock was dead? “You and Tim were good friends, then?”
“We are very, very close,” she said warmly. Her voice betrayed the lightest of East Coast accents, like a touch of New York, but not as strong. “He’s just the greatest guy. I forgot you don’t really know him.”
“I have some very difficult news, then,” I said carefully.
“What news?”
“Last night, after I found one of Tim’s magazines, I went out to see if he might be home. Everyone’s been so worried about him. Greta was going crazy.”
“Was she?” Susan asked, her face a blank.
“Yes. So I drove out to his house, not knowing what I’d find. But when I got there, there had been a fire.”
“At Tim’s house? In Studio City?” Susan looked concerned.
“Yes. In the garage, actually. And he was hurt. The police told me they found his body there, Susan.”
“What?” She looked at me as if it wasn’t possible. “Maddie, what are you telling me?”
“Tim died last night. They don’t know what to make of it. The police are wondering if his death might be connected to some other drug slayings.”
“That’s ridiculous! Tim doesn’t use drugs. You must have gotten this all mixed up. Tim isn’t like that at all.”
I looked at her as she patted her dog’s neck and smoothed down his thick fur. Susan Anderson was taking the news of her close friend’s death with an eerie calm.
“I apologize,” she said softly. “You must think I’m not paying attention. I guess I am not able to talk about this right now.”
“I know. I’m sorry to be the one to bring you such terrible news.”
“That’s okay. Don’t feel bad,” she said, and reached
out to give my arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure there’s some mistake. Tim isn’t dead. He can’t be.”
“But, Susan, haven’t you noticed that things have been going wrong at the office? Lots of things don’t make sense. I found a secret door in Tim’s office…” Susan looked up at me and nodded. “…and a hidden bedroom. You know about that!”
“Tim wanted to get away and he thought the easiest way would be to stay in that side bedroom for a couple of weeks. Isn’t it a tricky little hideaway? We figured it must have quite a Hollywood history, that bedroom. But then Tim thought our production schedule was over. It would have been if the network hadn’t come up with this last-minute special. Tim never imagined Greta would hire another writer. And even when she did, he couldn’t have guessed she’d put you in his private office.”
“Are you saying that all the time Greta and Artie and everyone has been worried about him, Tim Stock has been living right there behind the bookcase in his old office at
Food Freak
?”
“Oh, please. Don’t be mad.”
“I don’t know what to think. Why was he doing it?”
“I can’t really explain. Something to do with his personal life, I think. He never told me what was behind it all. I brought him food and did his laundry and little things. He knows the studio and knows where he can hide. He stayed away in the daytime and only came back after everyone left work.”
“Everyone except for you,” I said, thinking it over. I had marveled at how late Susan had stayed at the studio each night, how she could possibly have any private life if she gave so many hours to her job. “But
why would he hide out like that, Susan? That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Tim has had some things pile up, personal things, like I said, and he just needed some time to think things through. Look, Maddie, I don’t know anything and I can’t talk about Tim anymore.”
“Okay. I understand,” I said. Finally, someone who might have some idea what the hell is going on, and of course she would never tell me. “Can you at least explain to me about all this?” I spread my hand to encompass the yard and the Pierce College sheep barn and the pastureland behind us. “This is the most un-L.A. place in the entire San Fernando Valley. How did you come to take care of sheep?”
“Oh, my gosh,” she said, flushing. “You really want to hear about me?”
“Do you mind? I’m blown away.”
Susan continued to blush, obviously much more used to staying in the background as able assistant than stepping forward onto center stage. She was terribly cute in her self-effacing way. “It’s a funny story, if you really want to hear it. Just a second.” She whistled and her dogs came running. They quickly jumped up into the back of her car and settled themselves down. She told me again each of her boys’ names. Thorn lay in the backseat and raised a black eyebrow at us, as if letting us know what an intelligent guy he was. The other two, Niko and Khailo got comfortable in the rear storage area of the SUV where they would have the best view out of the back. Susan pulled the tailgate up and beckoned me to walk with her. We settled on a primitive wooden bench under the wispy tree in front of the barn.
“So, tell me,” I asked, “how did you get into sheep? Do you come from farm people way back?”
She burst out laughing. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. My parents still live in Queens. I went to college in Manhattan. I never saw a farm in my life, I don’t think.”
“Then how?”
“Okay, you want the whole story? Here it is. I had been working in production for a lot of years. I was getting a lot of PA work but I was trying to move up. It’s very hard. The goal is to get into the Directors’ Guild, to become an AD. You have to work at the same company for a long time before they give you that kind of break. The problem is, most production companies hire you for a show, but they don’t always have a hit. Then you have to work for another company. It’s hard to get someone to sponsor you, you know?”
I nodded.
“And I needed the benefits. The health insurance. I mean, I’m not married. I had to look after my career.”
“So why are you still working as a PA?”
“Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story,” Susan said, her eyes twinkling. “But let me tell you what happened that got me into the guild.”
“And that leads to the sheep?”
“Yes, it does. See, I was working for Artie at the time. This was about five years ago. He had that
Great Escapes
show, do you remember it? It was on for two seasons.”
“I think so. Where celebrities went on safari?”
“They went everywhere exotic, yes. And Tim was the head writer and Greta was the AD and I was the first PA.”
“All the same people who are working on
Food Freak.
”
“Right. Usually, when a team of people works well together, the executive producer keeps hiring us all from show to show. It’s easier for everyone. We know we work well together. Anyway, Artie can be pretty difficult. You know that, right?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, laughing a dry little chuckle. “He can be very difficult. You haven’t seen that side of him yet, but believe me he can. A lot of these guys are like big babies. They want everything their way, and when they get it, they’re still not happy.
“Well, I’d worked for Artie before. He’d blown up at me before. Every other time I just took it. I just stood there and let him scream at me. And the next day, he’d always apologize. He usually gave me some big generous gift and begged me to forgive him. He can be extremely sweet, as I’m sure you know. And it’s like he has these temper tantrums and then when they’re over, they’re over.”
“I am just amazed, here,” I said.
“So anyway, we were in Mexico, I remember. We were getting set to shoot an episode where the woman who starred in
Touched by an Angel
and her family were going to visit the Aztec pyramids outside Mexico City, in Teotihuacán. So we’re out on a scouting day with the director and the art director and the lighting director, so Artie can pick the exterior locations, and he’s furious. These aren’t majestic pyramids, according to Artie. They’re dusty little broken-down ruins, he says. It was hot, and we didn’t have the time to select another location. We were having budget problems, but then Artie is always worried about money no matter how rich he is. And he just lost it.”
“What did he do?”
“Typical Artie Herman tantrum. He couldn’t yell at his good buddy the director. And he couldn’t yell at his art director or his lead camera guy or his lighting director, so he turned to me and screamed that it was all my fault.”
“Oh, Susan.”
“This had all happened before, Madeline. I’d heard him blow up many times before. Only this time, it felt different. This time I was hot, too, and we were in a foreign country, and I had no way to just go to my room. I had to ride back in a van with all these guys who had just stood there listening to Artie fire me.”
“He fired you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling. “He fired me. I think he’s fired me at least five times in the past eight years.”
“Oh my God, Susan.” She seemed so sanguine and unruffled, but this story was grotesque.
“Anyway, when I finally, finally got back to the hotel that night, I kind of lost it. I went to the bar to buy the biggest bottle of tequila I could to take to my room. I didn’t know what to do. Artie was furious with me. I didn’t have my return ticket. I didn’t even have my passport—the hotel had it, I think. I didn’t have any money. And I was crushed. I had counted on my salary at
Great Escapes
to make payments on my car, and to cover the months when I wasn’t able to find work. Plus, I wasn’t in the union at that time, so I was paying for all my own health insurance. It was just a terribly scary time for me to be out of a job. So I went to the hotel bar and ordered a bottle of tequila.”
“And then what?”
“And then I saw Tim. He was at the bar. He hadn’t been out on the location scout and he hadn’t heard about me getting fired. I told him. We had known each
other pretty well before, but this night I was hysterical. He took me back to his room and mixed me tequila and fresh-squeezed orange juice and just listened to me. I usually have such good control over myself, but that night I really lost it.”